


The Intercept

by anonymousorly



Series: Connections are more than accurate passes [3]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Bottom Paulo, Canon Compliant, Champions League, M/M, Paris Saint-Germain F.C., Smut, dybottom amirite, messi eats out paulo, messi fucks paulo, neymar fucks paulo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 08:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12295170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousorly/pseuds/anonymousorly
Summary: One spontaneous visit to Italy and Neymar finds out: he has the same problem as Leo with Paulo.





	The Intercept

Neymar feels it on the way to the airport, glances at his teammates for any indication that they do also, and tunes out their loud voices when there is none. He hasn't seen Leo in more than a month, hasn't felt their _us_ until right now, and pulls out his phone in search for answers. No unexpected messages or missed calls. Was it possible for only one side, only him, to feel it?

He views the league fixtures, at one matchup specifically, and doesn't want it to make sense like it does. From the seat behind him, Dani snatches the device after seeing the screen and he lets him. He doesn't know that Leo's eating Paulo out across the sea, holding his trembling thighs and licking his prostate so he squirms and gasps. He doesn't know color explodes behind Paulo’s eyelids when Leo thrusts into him, how he droops and moans at the wet sensation intruding him.

He knows what Paulo is feeling, has felt it more than once, but doesn't know _that_ Paulo is feeling it.

Sunday is clearly a breakout match (as if _Dybala_ needed one) and Neymar watches from kickoff to substitution, brows lowered and eyes narrowed not only for his entire 85 minutes but during halftime with a blank stare at the commentary panel. Comments comparing his play to _quote_ fellow Argentine _unquote_ whirl louder after the fourth attempt in the second half and Neymar’s grateful for the sub because he needs to turn the shit off.

He repeats to himself that his Juventus reaction and the small rift later with Cavani are not relatable whatsoever. PSG has a vacant week so he takes a morning flight on Monday to _Italia_. He'd been about five months prior, in that epic disaster of a shutout defeat, so he isn't the brightest bulb in the box when his plane lands.

It doesn't matter how he got the address (not from Leo's phone contacts) or knew Paulo wouldn't question his most random arrival (also not from Leo's phone), but he's buzzed in the building door and makes it to Paulo’s apartment as three men (entourage, acquaintances, the type) exit. They all glare at him closely, judgemental and untrusting, and the last one slams the door closed so he's forced to knock. It adds to his irritation.

The retrieval is too quick for him to truly gather…what _this_ is right now; to gather that he's on Paulo’s doorstep, in fucking Italy, Paulo blinking at him in a fucking white tank that hangs loose yet wide arm holes reveal enough underneath, his stupid tattoo extended to hold the door open… It was a short flight but Neymar never travels well, so he rudely pushes by before any formal invite’s offered.

Well-mannered as usual, Paulo says nothing and softly locks the door, getting him a tall glass of water and being courteous just like (Neymar assumes) his mum taught. He sits across from Neymar in the living room and asks if he can do anything else for him, confident and poised. They share similarities aside from the obvious but…

“You played well yesterday,” he praises and Paulo’s brow twitches. “Exceptionally, rather, given your, eh, Barça blowout.”

Their locked eyes unblinking, Paulo argues, “The two are incomparable,” and Neymar knows that; just as Paulo knows exactly why he's here.

He shrugs and sips his water. “Could've been. Certainly Leo gave you pointers afterward on that slight lag you had, hm?”

Soft pink radiates across Paulo’s cheeks and Neymar reminds himself to breathe, remain seated. Leo told him about Paulo and everything suddenly confirmed itself. “Can I do anything else for you?”

Unfortunately, that question triggers him. He can't remain seated and carries Paulo to his bedroom, throwing him on his back and devouring his sweet mouth. He teased Leo more than once about Paulo, “the powerful Messi powerless to the pretty boy” and “suck the youth from the youth” among his self-defined clever one-liners. He understands now why he stayed away, how the allure could be addicting and what the impulsive spark could do…the _danger_. 

Kissing and touching Paulo is not only euphoric but easy, his whimpers encouraging and skin intoxicating. And it really isn't fair, Neymar recognizes, how rewarding this kid makes him feel.

Paulo’s eyes roll backward as Neymar pushes into him, letting out a cry that's deep like a moan and short like a gasp. What the sound is called doesn't matter, Neymar _needs_ to hear it again and pulls out before he's even fully in. Paulo whimpers and Neymar wants to tell him to just fucking stop, stop doing things that make his head spin, stop being fucking gorgeous for one second, just stop. He doesn't, rocking his hips forward and Paulo cries out again.

“Did he touch you like this?” he candidly asks, foreheads and noses pressed.

Paulo’s Adam's apple bobs, whispers, “Neymar,” and arches up to kiss him, thick air flaring from their noses.

He doesn't ( _can't_ ) stay captured by diversion long, moving Paulo’s legs against his chest and ankles on his shoulders. He readjusts to better thrust without slipping too far out and watches Paulo grip the bedding, tug his bottom lip, and attempt not writhing. “Did he touch you like I am?”

“No,” and it reaches his ears as more of a question. His thumb brushes the head of Paulo's cock and the moan makes him fuck harder. “N-Ney…”

He didn't particularly prefer that nickname, rather loathed it, but tumbling breathlessly from Paulo’s beautiful mouth would be his exception.

Paulo doesn't score his next game and, while the Parisian club are dining, Dani spins away from the telly in his chair and pointedly glances across the table at Neymar.


End file.
